


Aftermath

by Nishizaki



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 05:15:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14664063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nishizaki/pseuds/Nishizaki
Summary: Sherlock Holmes hasn't got a single care in the world. Right?Missing scene from season 3, built around the armchair thing.





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Последствия](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4532493) by [Iron_Nishizaki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iron_Nishizaki/pseuds/Iron_Nishizaki). 



Sherlock Holmes isn’t troubled. He isn’t burdened, he has no problems whatsoever. He walks straight, his head up high, and gives no fucks at all. Live as you like, do as you like. Mycroft is lurking somewhere on the edge of their own Neutral Zone, pretending to be keeping an eye on his dear brother. Well, to be fair, Sherlock can’t be bothered.

Insignificant. Ignore.

Sherlock walks over a thin line between here and the darkness. He is watching it, searching for an answering glance, but the darkness keeps its silence. There are far more interesting things in life than breathing, shopping or soul searching.

Inside of his beautiful skull Sherlock holds an undying fire, that needs feeding every second of every day. Holmes throws new cases and all the useless information he picks up throughout the day in it. If he could, he would burn witches, elderly, kids and John’s wife with it.

John’s wife.

Liar.

Liar.

Liar.

Sherlock weights this thought and throws it into the fire as well. To hell with it all. The fire is cracking, while Sherlock plays the violin, dancing all over his own sanity.

Sherlock takes new cases and cracks them like nuts: the killer is the sister, check her diary for God’s sake; the thief is the neighbour from the opposite flat, look at his jacket’s lapels! Boredom is swirling under Sherlock’s skin in all the bad places, pulsing through his skull, flying through his lungs and itching on the inside of his elbow. Sherlock isn’t scared to even catch a damn bullet, he is rash, reckless, careless even. Devil-may-cry kind of guy.

Sherlock watches the flames from the fireplace cast weird shadows on the armchair standing next to it. He walks to the kitchen right over the damn thing, up and down, I can’t be bothered. Next day Sherlock moves the stupid furniture into the closet, calling it “the big clean up”.

He shakes his head, too bad he can not clean up his own brain anymore.

Delete.

Delete.

Delete.

John is perfectly fine living his boring life in his boring flat with his fatuous wife. Sherlock brings The armchair back and kicks it and kicks it and kicks it again. He kicks it trying to express a whole Solar system of information ( _emotions_ ) in his head.

Later Sherlock causes a local catastrophe in the bathroom, throwing down all the bottles and vials. Then he sits right on the cold floor covered in shattered glass and cuts. He sits and it’s freezing to do so, but what does it matter? What does it matter, if his big flat on Baker Street’s got only one toothbrush if Sherlock Holmes is alone in a city full of people?

Perhaps, Sherlock Holmes is the biggest fool on the planet, but the only person who was ever able to point it out is long gone.

Insignificant.

Sherlock spills water all over The armchair expecting to be reprimanded immediately because The armchair belongs to someone else. Someone who sits here every evening reading a boring newspaper. Nothing happens. The fire in Sherlock’s head cackles and laughs at him with Jim Moriarty’s laughter. Sherlock wipes the water off and moves the armchair back to the closet. He winces. He was able to burn his enemy to ashes, but no one told Sherlock that he might get burnt himself. Well, Moriarty did, didn’t he?

Work’s hazard.

Ignore.

The darkness turns to him, and Sherlock does try to ignore it still. In his head, he imagines burning London and the ways to get away with it. Jim’s laughter in his head grows louder.

Delete.

Sherlock Holmes fears nothing. The rage scares him not. The vengeance, the loneliness, even death itself scare him not. He has re-payed all his debts, punished all his enemies, saved all his friends. Sherlock stands next to the window, plays the violin and ignores the fire raging within.

If he were asked, what he feels like, he would have laughed.

Feelings are boring!

But no one asks anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Trying my skills in translation. English ain't my first language, so any mistakes pointed out would be greatly appreciated.


End file.
